


Jake: struggle.

by deadcellredux



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Community: homesmut, Crying, Forced Orgasm, Glitches, Horror, Meta, Nightmares, Other, Tricksters, Wrong, game mechanics, selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:41:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadcellredux/pseuds/deadcellredux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The queasy discomfort in your stomach seems to hollow out and twist a knot within your core at the <i>thing</i> hovering over the lower half of your body.</p><p>It's you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jake: struggle.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [homesmut](http://homesmut.dreamwidth.com) kinkmeme comm, for this fan art based prompt which I DEFINITELY urge everyone to look at (NSFW): 
> 
> "<http://my-friend-the-frog.tumblr.com/post/41721904241/i-call-this-image>
> 
> Something based on this picture perhaps?"
> 
> ~~OOPS~~

_Jake._

_JAKE._

_JAKE JAKE JAKE JAKEJAKEJAKEY_

The nagging cadence of your own voice wakes you to unpleasant sensations; you’re certain you’ve been gutted and stuffed with sandpaper, positive that your brain has been replaced with a cluster of grinding stones. You take a mental inventory of yourself, counting the twitch of two arms and two legs; a wiggle of what you hope are still ten toes; the balling of your free hand into a fist. The fingers of your other tighten around your pistol grip and you manage a weak grin in spite of yourself; falling asleep whilst fully armed is a habit you’re lately quite comfortable with letting die hard.

_JAKE. OPEN. YOUR EYES._

_OPEN_

What’s curious is the fact that there’s a warm hand on your bare thigh, and unless you’ve sprouted another limb by way of some bizarre machination of Sburb, you’re quite positive that it doesn’t belong to you in the slightest.

“Who in the what now…” you mumble, quite certain that you’re being rudely manhandled by a hooligan clearly encouraged by your weakened state. You open your eyes— _peel_ them open, more like it, because your lids feel stuck to the dry surface of your eyeballs. You note that your peepers are nearly as dry as your sour-tasting mouth.

The queasy discomfort in your stomach seems to hollow out and twist a knot within your core at the _thing_ hovering over the lower half of your body.

It's you.

You clumsily scuttle backwards like a lopsided crab, limbs aching as they flail. Your fingers grasp uselessly against what feels like smooth stone beneath you, searching for something to grab in order to pull yourself away faster, and your pistol clatters so loudly on the hard surface when you fling your hand back that you actually startle yourself.

“Jake!” you say—not you, but the _Other_ you. The Other you, who also happens to be the _one_ thing you can see in the impermeable blackness enveloping you. Your own body is dimly illuminated because the Other you is glowing, his body outlined by a sickly green haze edged by unevenly huge, blurry pixels. When he moves, the slurry motion of the haze coupled with the hard-lined static of the pixels nearly makes your eyes cross.

You remember—gosh darn but you suddenly _remember_ , and at this point you’re frankly quite amazed at all the unpleasant sensations that your body can produce. A sickeningly hollow pang of fear quickens your heartbeat and sets your teeth chattering. You feel your skin undulating with the chill of rising goose bumps, and you honest-to-golly _swear_ that you will never let yourself become this _thing_ again, not after what you’ve done, not after how horrifying it felt—

It's right about time to make like a banana and split, you think, and you raise your gun to aim at its face. _Your_ face. Except not.

Your hand is shaking.

"Don't touch me," you croak. Your throat is dry, and your teeth have begun to chatter at the thought of him touching you, _getting inside of you_ again. "I'll bloody well shoot if you come closer, you neon ruffian!"

The Other you laughs, a wretched, distorted version of your own manic giggle which comes off sounding downright ghoulish. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and yanks—bloody _yanks_ —with such a freakish force that you are dragged, effortlessly, beneath him. You can’t avoid looking at him now; his face is directly above yours.

It’s what you imagine looking into one of those funhouse mirrors you’ve seen in movies would feel like, except this isn’t funny or silly at all. Your eyes start to sting in spite of yourself as you stare at his wretched, _wrong_ face, the strange color of his skin, the markings on his cheeks and the way his eyes and his smile stretch inhumanly wide. It’s like one of those masks people wear for the Halloween holiday, except it’s real and it looks _just_ normal enough to be entirely uncanny.

“I want you to be happy, Jake. Don’t you want to be happy?” his voice is yours, yes— yours, if it were run through some sort of a filter that made it half-an-octave higher and inexplicably unsettling. There’s something about the frequency that makes your skin crawl further, and you shut your eyes tightly so as not to stare at his blinding, terrible face any longer.

“I’m quite fine thank you,” you say through clenched teeth. You feel the fingers of the Other you playing at the waistband of your shorts, slipping beneath it before trailing down over the front, pressing quite purposefully against your flaccid cock.

“D—don’t—“ you stutter, and now you are _really_ frightened. The thought that your own _other self_ wants to violate you roars into your mind, and adrenaline helps you smack his hand away and lift your gun to his temple. 

“Stop,” you say, and your firm intent is betrayed by the waver in your voice. “I don’t want to be you. Do you understand me? I made a mistake and I’m not going back to this. Do you get it?”

The Other you turns his head slightly and presses a kiss to the barrel of your gun, never taking his glassy, unblinking, doll-like eyes off of yours. “I think someone is lyyyyyyyyyyying,” the Other you purrs, and _licks_ the barrel of your gun. The metal at his tongue’s contact point shimmers in a blast of blurry pink and white pixels before spreading, threatening to slowly render your weapon an eight-bit mess of glitter unless you act, _fast—_

You shut your eyes tight and fire into the skull of your double.

His giggle rises in pitch and intensity until he’s near howling, and you open your eyes to find that your gun hasn’t fired at all. The word _BANG_ hovers in glittery green block letters next to his face, and he swats them away with a swoop of his hand. They careen off into the black, tumbling over one another, and you find yourself watching them until the fading trails of _BNG A_ then _GBNA_ then _G N A B_ disappear into the void.

“Stop,” you say, “just stop—“

You’re cut off when his mouth covers yours, biting and licking and sucking at your lips, pressed desperately closed. “Jakey, Jakey. You’re me! We wouldn’t want Me to be sad, now would we?” he says against your mouth, as if you’re a disobedient puppy. You cringe as he continues, refusing to see him as _yourself_ , now, because he is utterly inhuman and you can't bear to think that this was ever you. “Oh gosh Jake, it’s wonderful, you know how wonderful it feels! Come on Jake, just come back and we can all be happy and joyful together and you can be my self-husband and I’m sure we’ll find a way to reproduce all of this happiness!”

In another circumstance you’d laugh, because his stupid words are just that— _stupid,_ and you’re amazed at the fact that he’s actually speaking them. Then again, what did _you_ say, when you were him? Your jacked-up hyper ramblings were just as nonsensical, and you know you went and hurt the people you care about, _again—_

You feel a sudden sick pang of longing and helplessness as you wonder where your friends are. You wish they were here, because you need help, you need _them--_

"Bugger off,” you mutter, and then you gasp and shrink away when he palms your crotch again. His other hand grabs your shoulder to hold you in place.

Even after he lets go, you can’t move.

“Stop this vile chicanery,” you say, the rushed and trembling panic in your voice only serving to panic you further. “You’re going to regret this, you’re going to—“

You fall into humiliated silence as he unzips your shorts and pulls your cock free. Your limbs feel weighed down as if by lead, and what you _can_ see of your surroundings is growing increasingly hazy. You shudder as he begins to tug at your flaccid cock, massaging it as he stares at you with an impossibly huge smile. 

He has yet to blink.

“ _Stop_ ,” you say, and you feel your face heating with the sheer embarrassment and shame of being helpless and violated. The panic pounding in your rapid heatbeat escalates when you consider that struggling might only excite him further.

“But you don’t want me to stop!” he croons, as he strokes you faster. Your body is responding as is only natural, despite the fear screaming through your brain, and you shake your head furiously as tears well up in your eyes. He continues, cheerful and singsong. “I know you don’t want me to stop! Don’t you like this? Isn’t this how your boyfriend touched you? I know he dumped you and you’re sad. But I don’t want you to be sad!”

The trap _works_ , because in the instant your mind is switched to Dirk, the touch on your cock feels _good_ , and you shiver. “ _No_ ,” you sob, and when you move your arms it feels as if you’re pushing through molasses, but you manage to get one up to cover your face while the other tries smacking the Other you away.

Before you rest your forearm over your eyes, you see him. 

You look directly into your own eyes, and the emptiness there is horrifying.

You try to think of anything at all asides from what is happening, but your attempts fail. He giggles sporadically as he strokes your now-hard cock, and you twitch, wishing desperately to curl up into yourself, to hide, to simply _erase yourself_ and forget everything, all of it, this and everything before. You want to be home. That’s all you want. Home.

“I know how you like to be touched, Jakey,” other you trills, and you sob in response, because _of course_ he would, he’s _you_. He strokes you exactly the way you stroke yourself when you’re alone, and some desperate, traumatized part of you tries to find comfort in the fact that this is _your own hand touching yourself, that’s all it is, it will be over soon_

“Oh God,” you sob.

“God!” the other you shouts with exuberance, “is right here! God is you! You are your own god, Jake! I am you, as a god! Don’t you want to be god!?!?”

“No,” you pant, and you’re a disgusting mess of tears and snot and you push your arm against your face so hard that it smashes your nose and muffles your voice and makes an utterly failed attempt at suffocating the sheer humiliation and disgust currently consuming you. “No, stop, please, please just stop, _stop—_ ”

You hate him. You hate _yourself._ You hate yourself for the fact that you come, unable to control your sickening, sobbing moans even as you shake your head _no, no, no_ , futile as your body spends itself.

+++

You open your eyes to the flashing lights of your skulltop, and immediately shut them with a grimace. Your head is pounding, your stomach is queasy and you feel like you’ve been stuffed with sandpaper and—

you seize up with fear and adrenaline for a moment before you realize that you are alone, that your shorts are clearly fastened and that there is absolutely no trace of your semen wetting your thighs. You exhale, long and hard, because the old noggin has given you quite the what-for and that sure was one heck of a bloody nightmare.

Except that it wasn’t—not entirely, because that _did_ happen, and _you_ were that thing, once. _That was you_ , in your reality, not too long ago, and—

the terrible thread of fear shoots up through your belly again when you consider the fact that your nightmare wasn’t entirely a nightmare, that perhaps _he_ was trying to pull you back.

No matter.

You resisted. 

You shiver when something distant in your subconscious adds, like a whisper,

 _this time_.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [listentoyoubleed.tumblr.com](http://listentoyoubleed.tumblr.com)


End file.
